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"Mainiacs away from Maine are truly displaced persons, only half alive, only half aware of their immediate surroundings. Their inner attention is always preoccupied and pre-empted by the tiny pinpoint on the face of the globe called Down East. They try to live not in such a manner that they will eventually be welcomed into Paradise, but only so that someday they can go home to Maine."
-- Louise Dickinson Rich

Such is life.

Yesterday was my early Friday at AcronymCo (folks in my group get to alternate Fridays to leave at 2:00 instead of 5:00). As I left I put on my headphones, cranked my iPod, rolled down the windows, and drove the fifteen minutes to Pet’s Inc. to get a rat for the snake.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I had to pause in front of the bar at the end of the plaza (Monkey Pants, which is just about the best name for a bar EVER) as a customer pulled out of a parking space. As I sat, I sang along to the song I was listening to. Which also happens to be the very song I would use for my audition for American Idol, should they ever expand the age limit to slightly chubby 33 year old women with questionable talents.

Pat Benatar’s “We Belong”. Which, as anyone who is familiar with the song knows, can ONLY be sung at the top of one’s lungs.

“WE BELONG TO THE LIGHT, WE BELONG TO THE THUUUNDEEEER!”

I’m looking around, waiting patiently for the guy to finish backing out. I look left, observe the comings and goings of the nearby Greek restaurant.

“WE BELONG TO THE SOUND OF THE WORDS…”

I look right, observe the patio in front of Monkey Pants, notice the patrons sitting outside sipping beers and conversing.

“…WE’VE BOTH FALLEN UNNN…”

They’re staring in my direction. They’re staring at me.

“…deeerrrr…”

Oh. Hi. Frick it, I forgot the windows were rolled down. I think I turned seven different shades of red before I decided on a nice flattering vermilion.

They noticed that I noticed them watching me, and they started clapping.